pain i did not
by shoestringheart
Summary: "... there was pain I did not feel, which those who lose the one who loves them feel. I was not driven against the grate of a mortal life, but just the slowly shut gate of preference. At times, I envied them." [sharon olds] a series of unrelated drabbles, set in the marvel universe. currently: stucky and trishica
1. monochrome

AN: this is a very short stucky drabble. I wanted to play with colors and... this is what I've got.

disclaimer: just playing in someone else's sandbox.

summary: Steve's just this washed out jaundice in whatever's left of his ragged mind.

* * *

He expects Steve to show up for three months after he wakes up (and he's a little sketchy on the passage of time, but he guesses–three months).

Steve does not show.

There's this place inside of Bucky, this place he keeps all of the things he can't think about if he wants to survive, all the things he can't live without. Bucky's just one paradox after another, just this endless sequence of contradictions. The first time they make him hurt–really hurt, in that place he can't, won't give up–Bucky wishes he'd never met stupid Steve Rogers.

 _Two boys face each other, opposite ends of a bridge. The blonde bleeds sluggishly, but glowers up at Bucky, arms shaking as he raises them again._

There's this jolt, this flash of pain–deep, like he's cracking apart inside, like there's an earthquake splitting his bones–and Bucky is falling over and over again, rolling backwards, Steve's face like the sunset; all these different colors at once but golden underneath.

At some point, the gold of Steve's face in his memory tinges monochrome; Steve's just this washed out jaundice in whatever's left of his ragged mind.

There's something in the curve of his Handler's jaw that makes his gut clench like he's been sucker punched years later. Something in the way he looks at him, that's the best way he's got to describe it, something in his eyes that makes Bucky breathe a little harder.

(Sixty years ago, Steve never showed but Bucky never stopped hoping.)

* * *

thanks for reading! I'd love to hear any thoughts you care to leave behind!

this is crossposted on ao3, under shoestringheart and you can find me on the TUMBLR under the same.

ta!


	2. aftermath

AN: totally unrelated, jessica jones TRISHICA drabble. there's femslash here, so. proceed with caution or whatever.

disclaimer: I'm just playing in someone else's sandbox.

summary: The thing about aftermath is that it's the gift that keeps on giving.

* * *

After Kilgrave is dead, it becomes kind of a regular thing. Even when there's no threat of Jessica not being _Jessica_ , she still ends every text message, every phone call, every conversation with those three words and Trish isn't complaining. Won't complain, ever, about Jessica showing any kind of affection, weird as it may be. It still disarms her, a little bit, every time; still makes the breath catch in the back of her throat when Jessica says what Trish already knows, has known for _years_. She's never expected those words from Jessica-there's never been anything more than an unspoken understanding-an easy sort of peace, this tuce the two came to, a long time ago, when they promised not to share secrets with anyone but each other.

(They've both broken that promise, once or twice, but it's easy to forgive when they're both guilty; when there are bigger things, now, than the secrets they used to carry.)

Trish has always just kind of accepted whatever Jessica has given her, so when Jessica _gives_ her those three words-

The night after Jessica snaps Kilgrave's neck, the night after she's acquitted for fucking murder, Jessica escapes the apartment with the ringing phones and Malcolm and Luke and knocks on Trish's door, because Trish was there to clean up the aftermath every time before (even when Jessica told her to leave, to _get the fuck out_ ), so Trish will know what to do with all of the pieces of herself she can't glue back together. Jessica tried, but they're sharp and cutting her fingers, and Jessica's bleeding bourbon, it's coming through her skin, it's all over the floor. And Trish just lets her in and doesn't mind the mess.

Okay, so, it's a little fucked up how they're technically sisters, and they still have IGH (whatever the fuck that is) to deal with, but right _now_ -

Right now, there's a comfort that can be found in the way Trish's spine feels against Jessica's stomach; a comfort in the way Jessica's fingers find the places between her ribs. They fit together; they have since they were fifteen. Jessica presses her face into Trish's hair and breathes in deep. There's a solace there, there's peace, there's something that makes her feel like she's fifteen again which, all things considered, is one of the better ways to feel. Yes, her parents were dead, and yes, she could break bathroom sinks in half, but Trish has always felt like the other half of her soul, which is something she believes, but something she'll never say out loud.

Jessica is filled with things she'll never say out loud. She's a glass bottle, stuffed with letters and Trish is the only one who _knows_.

Jessica presses a hand against the soft curve of Trish's abdomen, runs her lips down across Trish's shoulder, and Trish just melts back into her, just reaches down to brush her fingers along Jessica's arm, linking their fingers.

"Say it again," she breathes into the room, into this sacred, shared place between them.

Jessica chuckles, a warm rush against the back of her neck that rolls down her spine. There's a pause and then: "I love you."

The shiver is still there- those words still make her heart rest in the back of her throat. "Jess-"

Jessica's never been one for talking during sex, so she just slides her palm down from Trish's abdomen to cup her, warm and wet, spread her open with her fingers, brush against her.

Trish grunts, rolls her head back against Jessica's shoulder, and arches forward, fingers curling around Jessica's elbow. She rocks her hips down slowly, jerkily, breathing out as Jessica slips her middle finger up against her, eases the digit into the wet warmth she's found, and presses her lips against Trish's shoulder. "I love you," she says again.

Jessica's never been gentle in bed, never been one for soft touches and whispers. That's too much like Kilgrave, too much like the sex _they_ had, so Jessica makes it rough, makes it _hurt_ so that she can remember what's real. Stay in the moment. That's the key.

But she can't be anywhere _but_ this moment with Trish, can't think of anything but Trish warm and soft against her, can't think of anything but making Trish come (again, and again, and again). There's a peace in it, a rhythm she finds that doesn't have echoes of Kilgrave everytime she moves. If Jessica's a bottle stuffed full of letters, then this is her opening, her undoing.

When Trish tightens her fingers around Jessica's arm, when she rolls down and freezes, head bowing forward, Jessica presses her face against Trish's neck and moves her thumb against Trish and it's enough. _I love you,_ she thinks, but doesn't say it, keeps it to herself this time.

In the morning, they will have IGH to deal with and more (the thing about aftermath is that it's the gift that keeps on giving), but for now, they're broken and open, taken apart on the bed, two halves of a whole, drawn together again.

* * *

thanks for reading! I'd love to hear any thoughts you'd like to leave behind.

these drabbles are crossposted on ao3 (same username) and you can hit me up on the TUMBLR under shoestringheart.

ta!


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